


And the Bitter Taste

by anr



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-30
Updated: 2007-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael, she thinks, would have understood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zal

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: goes AU after _Vengeance_ (3x19)
> 
> BETA: mylittleredgirl and phrenitis

He brings her chocolate sometimes.

"Zal says," he says, and stops. He takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "This is for you."

It can't really _be_ chocolate, of course. Not out here. But it's brown, and kind of sweet, and she knows it will melt in her mouth if she leaves it on her tongue for long enough. She's pretty sure it's drugged.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"I know." His voice is low, rough. "Sleep now. It -- it'll be okay."

She sleeps.

  


* * *

  



	2. Durta

She wakes as a woman comes into the room, ropes of braided animal hair in her hands. "It's the strongest we have," she says to John as she hands it over. "I hope it will suffice."

"Thank you," says John, and the woman smiles prettily at him.

Her senses are groggy, the room's dimensions indistinct. She starts to stretch and finds her limited range of movement puzzling. "John...?"

He looks up quickly and moves to her side. "Hey," he says softly, his fingers finding her hand as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Easy."

She looks around but doesn't recognise anything. Hardly even recognises John, unshaven and out of uniform. "Where --" She blinks and tries again. "What happened?"

She remembers --

John gestures to the woman in the room, and she watches her step closer to the bed. "Elizabeth," he says, "this is Durta. Durta, Elizabeth." He smiles down at her. "Durta's invited us to stay with her while you rest."

\-- _nothing_. "Rest?" she repeats, and John nods.

"The storm's beginning to ease," he says. "Durta says there might even be sun later."

Storm? She tries to sit up. Fails. "I want to see," she says.

"Soon." His hand tightens around her wrist. "Soon."

  
*  


John feeds her, bathes her, holds cups of water to her lips and encourages her to drink. He doesn't remind her to breathe, to live, but it's implied nonetheless.

She has a low buzz in her skull, an echo of a migraine, and it's refusing to dissipate. If anything, she thinks, it seems to be getting stronger. John refuses to let her get out of bed, tells her she was seriously injured -- a possible spinal injury -- and that she needs to stay still. Her skin feels strange, not quite her own.

When she questions their location, he gives local descriptions only: _Durta's room, Durta's house, Durta's town._ When she asks about Atlantis, about their personnel, he tells her, _they're fine, they're okay_ , and changes the subject.

She knows he's lying to her, knows his dishonesty like she knows the thready pace of her own heartbeat.

What she can't quite understand is why she's letting him.

  
*  


The radio clicks to life while John is asleep.

_"Colonel Sheppard, please respond."_

She watches John twitch.

_"We know you're receiving this transmission."_

_Caldwell_ , she thinks. John stretches in the chair and his head jerks forward. On instinct, she snaps her eyes shut and pretends to be asleep; listens to him stir and stand up and take a step towards her.

_"You can't --"_

There's a click as John cuts him off. "Don't." She hears him spin away from her and pace towards the far corner of the room. "She's still alive."

Caldwell sighs, loud and heavy enough for it to echo over the two-way. _"You can't help her, Colonel. Not like this. Not --"_

"At least I'm willing to try." John turns off the radio and punches the wall.

_My hero_ , she thinks and opens her eyes.

  
*  


Dreams and nightmares and maybe they're memories, maybe they're not -- all she knows is that she is so _hungry_ sometimes.

John tears off pieces of bread and feeds her carefully. His fingers brush her lips, her chin, too often to be entirely accidental.

It's embarrassing to be fed this way, frustrating to be dependent on him. She knows she is so much _more_ than this.

When his thumb brushes crumbs from the corner of her mouth, she closes her eyes and escapes. Sees shapes in the blackness, silhouettes and webbing and rocky blue-grey surfaces that weren't nearly as cold to the touch as she would have once thought. Voices all around her, in her. In that moment, she _understands_.

She opens her eyes. Tilts her head to the side when he moves to place another piece of bread to her lips and looks up at him from an angle. He looks tired. "I'm sorry," she says, and smiles.

He shudders and looks away.

  


* * *

  


Thunder wakes her. Thunder and lightning and the dull roar of rain. John is leaning over her, fingers brushing hair from her eyes.

"John?" she asks, struggling to rise. "What --"

"Shh." His fingers are rhythmic on her forehead, the gentle pressure keeping her head on the pillow. "You've been ill. It's okay. It's okay."

He's lying; strangely, she doesn't feel like she minds.

  
*  


There is familiarity in the way John takes care of her. In the way he knows when she is hungry, when she is tired, when she is restless. His answers to her questions, while not always satisfying, are nevertheless prompt. She finds herself wondering when he learned how to read her mind.

"Durta says the harvest is going well," says John conversationally as he tucks her in. "He says it might be their best crop yet."

Durta is five foot nothing with ink-stained fingers and wire-thin spectacles, an overbite the size of Rhode Island. She finds it hard to believe he's ever even _seen_ a harvest, let alone helped with one. When she tries to picture Durta with a hoe, or a scythe (like the one the Acrenians gave her to use during their festival) she --

The Acrenians.

Without warning, the mental image she was developing of Durta is buried under a deluge of scenes, of memories, of --

She _remembers_.

"There were tubes," she says. "When I moved, my skin would pull and tear away from them. It would hurt like hell but I didn't care. What he was giving me hurt more. Liquid fire."

John is frozen, half bent over her. "Elizabeth --?"

She blinks.

Understands.

Smiles.

His hands find her shoulders, shaking her hard. "No!" he says. "No. Stay with me. Stay, _please_."

She remembers caring for him.

"You should let me go," she says and he sags, all his weight pushing her into the mattress. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it should.

His voice breaks. "I can't."

  
*  


The wraith attack.

Four hours of weapons fire and screams and through it all John sits at her feet, sidearm drawn, and keeps watch.

"I'm sorry," she says again, and maybe she means it, maybe she doesn't.

Michael, she thinks, would have understood.

His finger twitches against the trigger. "You can fight this."

Even now, even after _everything_ , he still has hope. "You can't fight what's inevitable."

Durta appears in the doorway, blood dripping from his chin, and John moves to talk with him. She doesn't bother to listen -- this too feels inevitable.

When John returns to the bed, she smells chocolate.

  


* * *

  


She wakes to heat. Stifling, baking heat. This room is an oven and she doesn't need to see the sun to know that they're in a desert.

"Here," says John, bending over her. He slides a hand under her neck and helps her raise her head; presses an earthenware mug to her lips and tips it slowly so that she can drink. "Durta says this will help."

_Durta_ , she thinks. The name sounds strangely familiar, but she can't quite place it, can't match any faces to the name.

"Where are we?" she asks, and the unexpected rasp in her voice surprises her.

"You were injured," John says. "After, well, you know." His sudden smile is forced, awkward. "But Durta found us, offered us shelter. Friendly as all get out, you know? You'll like her."

  
*  


Underneath her blankets, her wrists and ankles are circled with rope, the binds secured to the underside of the bed. John says it's for her own good -- that she tosses and turns too much in her sleep for him to let her risk damaging her spine any further -- but Elizabeth knows he's full of shit. These restraints don't keep her immobile, they just keep her on the bed. If she wanted to, she could still arch her back all the way off this mattress until every vertebrae in her spine cracked, possible spinal injuries be damned.

  
*  


She remembers --

_John, and a field of corn; a bright smile that seemed like it was just for her._

_John, and the warmth of his hand; his voice solemn but sincere as he gave his word._

_John, and the taste of chocolate; his touch just as bittersweet._

\-- nothing worthwhile.

  
*  


She dreams of John, of escape from this nightmare, of finally slaking her hunger, and wakes to the sound of the Stargate activating, to the click of the radio. Though her eyes are still closed, she's pretty sure John knows she's no longer asleep.

_"Sheppard? It's me. McKay. Are you there? 'Cause if you're not, well, then this probably won't make any sense to anyone listening in -- assuming, of course, they can even understand something as simple as an IDEN frequency, which, based on our initial survey of the planet is highly unlikely, and --"_ Silence suddenly. _"Fine. Okay. On the extremely_ remote _possibility that you_ are _listening -- though, let's face it, we all have our standards and this planet? totally below any_ sane _person's -- then you should know that we've been working on the retrovirus and we think --"_

John slowly presses the transmitter, cutting McKay off. "Does it work?"

_"You are there! I knew it! I_ told _them --"_

"McKay!"

_"Okay, okay. Yes. It works. Of_ course _it works -- what, do you think I'd waste my valuable time on something that wouldn't? Please. We've already had three successful cases of permanent regression and --"_

"Will it work on _her_?"

There's a pause, telling in it's silence. _"Yes,"_ says McKay, and the monosyllable confirms it.

"You still can't lie for shit, Rodney," John says.

_"Sheppard, wait! Don't do this! We'll find a way -- I will! You don't have to be another Zaddik to --"_

John clicks the radio off.

  
*  


She dozes, drifts, remembers more and finally understands. When she opens her eyes, she thinks John might have been crying.

"It wasn't your fault," she says. "On Acren? I never blamed you. There was no way you could have foreseen their arrival, no way you could have stopped them. There was simply too many of them and not enough of us. Being captured, what he did -- it was inevitable."

_Payback's a bitch_ , she thinks.

He stands and fumbles with his coat pocket. "I should have found you sooner."

She opens her mouth for the piece of chocolate he holds out to her. Sucks on it until her tongue is slick with sugar. "It wouldn't have made a difference."

He watches her close her eyes. "It would have to me."

  


* * *

  


"-- is the name we give to our most respected leaders and healers. It's a great honour."

"Thank you, but my name is --"

"I know, I know. And it's a _lovely_ name -- the prettiest I've ever heard -- but where we come from --"

Hushed voices, dragging her out of sleep. The words are meaningless, but she's pretty sure she can recognise -- "John?"

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Of footsteps. She struggles to open her eyes, to fully wake. "Elizabeth." John leans over her and places one hand on her shoulder, his other on her cheek. "Shh, easy, easy."

She tries to push past his touch. "John? What --"

"It's okay, shh, it's okay." She watches him turn away briefly, gesturing. Following his gaze, she watches as a woman cautiously approaches from the other side of the room. "Elizabeth? This is Durta. Durta? This is Elizabeth." John turns back to her and smiles brightly. "Durta's agreed to let us stay for awhile."

  
*  


John washes her hair, loosening the ropes just enough so that she can sit up. He props her up with pillows and warns her not to slouch or move, makes her promise to tell him the moment her back starts to ache again.

It's almost dark out, twilight settling over the mountain peaks she can just see through the bedroom window. It's the first time she can remember seeing them -- can remember seeing _anything_ not within her line of sight from the bed -- and she drinks in the view greedily.

John's fingers are gentle in her hair, his fingers easing through the wet and soapy strands. She sighs.

"Okay?" he asks.

"It is an ever-fixed mark," she murmurs, "that looks on tempests and is never shaken."

His hands still instantly. "Elizabeth?" He sounds worried and she blinks.

"Shakespeare," she says with a rueful laugh, glancing over her shoulder. "I'm sorry -- my mind must have wandered."

She turns back to the window.

"Please. Don't stop."

  
*  


Her memories are scattered, her immediate past fragmented. John tells her everything and nothing, answers every question without ever satisfying her curiosity. She can only assume he wants her to piece things back together on her own.

"I remember a lab," she says slowly, staring at the ceiling. John's sitting at a small table in the corner of the room, his gun in pieces before him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look up at her. "On Atlantis. One of the older sections, maybe?"

John picks up the clip and starts thumbing the bullets out, one by one.

"There was a machine in there. Some kind of device."

_Snick._

"I'm pretty sure it was Ancient in design."

_Snick._

"But it looked broken, ruined. There were parts everywhere."

_Snick._

She shakes her head and looks at John. "I don't -- that's all I remember." She tries not to sound too disappointed -- that handful of images is more than what she had this morning -- but it's difficult. She can't shake the feeling that things would be so much better if she could just _remember_. Closing her eyes, she runs through the memory again. "I wonder how the machine was destroyed..."

There's a crashing sound and she opens her eyes with a start to see John standing, his chair overturned and his neat line of bullets now scattered across the tabletop. Without a word, he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

She smiles.

  
*  


She fades in and out, piecing together her dreams and memories into something that vaguely resembles her past. The truth's not nearly as satisfying as she would have thought.

"Why do you do it?" she asks. "Why put yourself through all this?"

His expression grim, he slips a piece of chocolate into her mouth. "Because I promised," he says tiredly, "even to the edge of doom."

  


* * *

  


She wakes in a strange bed, in a strange room, her mind groggy and her memory full of holes, but John is there, familiar and kind as he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"This is Durta," he says, introducing the monk-like man standing near the door. "Durta says we'll be safe here."

  
*  


Despite John's assurances that they are both welcome here, Durta refuses to come into the room, makes John step outside whenever they need to speak. On the rare occasions when he's met her gaze, he always blanches and makes a sign with his hand, quickly looking away.

She cannot understand why.

More often than not, she thinks about Atlantis, about the life she used to lead, about Rodney and Teyla and Kate and so many others. John tells her so little about what has happened; evades more than he actually answers.

Home seems very far away.

  
*  


John leaves after breakfast, mutters something about checking in with the local ecclesiastics. _Durta_ , he says, _will look in on her while he's gone_.

She watches him go, the door carefully closed and locked behind him, and counts slowly to ten.

The front door slams.

_Durta_ , she thinks, quickly shedding her restraints, _can kiss her ass_.

  
*  


John walks through the village at a brisk pace. He doesn't look around -- barely even acknowledges the people he passes -- but Elizabeth maintains a fair distance between them just in case.

The winding, cobblestone streets remind her of old London; the detailed architecture of France. She feels like she's stepped back in time with every horse and carriage that trots past.

In the distance, its upper curve just visible over the city skyline, she can see the Stargate. She assumes that's where they're headed.

Without warning, John enters a church, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him. Surprised, she ducks into a nearby archway. While he did _say_ he was going to speak with the clergy, a part of her never for a moment actually expected him to be telling the _truth_ \-- she's pretty sure he's lied about everything else, so why not this too?

But then five minutes pass, ten, and still John doesn't reappear.

Her curiosity overwhelming, she follows him inside.

  
*  


The church is clean but musty, filled with simple wooden furnishings and detailed mosaics. John's sitting in one of the pews near the altar at the front, shoulders back and head raised. He doesn't look particularly penitent; she figures he's waiting for someone.

She finds a staircase just inside the entrance and climbs to the upper balcony. From there she has a clear view of the main room, and she takes a seat on one of the benches near the railing.

Her head aches slightly, the way it always used to before she got a migraine, and she rubs the back of her neck absently.

She hears a door close and footfalls on the stone floor. Down below, John stands and turns, and she leans forward and watches as a man walks down the aisle towards him.

"You're late."

"Sorry, parking was a bitch."

_Lorne!_ Slipping off the bench entirely, she kneels in front of the railing and strains for a better look.

"You got it?" asks John, and Lorne nods.

"Yeah." She watches Lorne unclip one of the pockets on his vest and retrieve a small leather package, handing it over to John. "How's the ESP blocker been working out?"

"Not too bad." Slipping the package into his pocket, John shrugs. "Only one definite contact since she started on it that I can tell, though she still believes she's communicating with them every time."

"The Jorjjen's, right?" says Lorne, and John nods. "We're pretty sure they were due for a culling anyway -- might just have been a coincidence."

"Wonderful," says John sarcastically. He shakes his head. "So, anything I should know about this new blend?"

"Doc says she's increased the amnesia effect slightly, but the downside is the sedative'll leave her system faster. You probably won't have as much time to move her anymore, though you will have a longer period between doses."

John shrugs. "As long as the blocker keeps working, that shouldn't be a problem. I can just change towns rather than planets."

Lorne nods. "That might be for the best. You're building up quite the myth as it is."

"Can't be helped," says John, "the familiar name game is the only dam I have against her paranoia. She's remembering faster every time, slipping further and further into that persona..." His voice trails off and she watches as he takes a deep breath. "Any more progress on the permanency?"

"Not sure," says Lorne. "Keller's priority so far has been the ESP blocker. If it continues to work like it has been -- and the amnesia extension holds like she hopes it will -- then she'll be able to focus more on the hunger."

"Good," says John, nodding. "Tell her I'll leave you another blood sample on the next planet -- McKay can tell you which one it will be."

"Done. And speaking of McKay, he said to tell you that he's going to let Caldwell contact you again two planets from now."

"The Colonel still taking flak from Earth about this?"

"Yes and no. They were loving it when he was clearing out all of those wraith monster dens you kept uncovering but now that they're all gone, they see no justification for him to simply keep tracking you. He either needs to capture you both or tie up all the loose ends."

"Shit," says John, shaking his head.

Lorne says something else, but she's heard all that she can handle for the moment. Letting go of the railing, she turns and sits with her back to it; tries to piece together their conversation into something that makes sense. ESP blockers? Wraith dens? Amnesia?

Her headache begins to pound. Wincing, she draws up one knee and rests her forehead against it, closing her eyes. She just needs a minute...

  
*  


When she opens her eyes again, John is sitting on the bench in front of her. He doesn't look particularly surprised to see her hiding up here, and she doesn't feel very surprised at having been caught out.

For the first time since she woke here on this planet, confused and lost, she takes a moment to really look at him.

"You look older," she says with a slow smile, stretching her arms up above her head. Her spine cracks satisfyingly. " _Defeated_."

He doesn't take the bait. Standing up, he holds out a hand to her. "Ready to go?"

She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. "Don't you want to know what I overheard?"

He shrugs. "Maybe if I thought you'd actually remember it."

She takes his hand and lets him pull her up. "You're wrong, you know," she says conversationally as he starts towards the stairs, pulling her along with him. "They _are_ coming."

John shrugs again, his tone irritatingly noncommittal. "We'll see."

  


* * *

  


She wakes cold, wet and uncomfortable. It's dark -- night -- and blood is rushing in her ears, her stomach and hips aching... she's being carried, she realises slowly. Over someone's shoulder. She's --

She throws up before she can help it, gagging on bile and unable to draw a breath, her body cramping up in its jack-knife position and compressing her lungs. Panicking, she starts to kick against the solid weight over the back of her knees, tries to push herself up and away.

" _Fuck_ ," she hears, the curse unexpected and jarring, and she throws her weight to the side in a desperate attempt for freedom.

It works.

The hold on her legs slips away and she falls, landing hard. The ground sloppy with mud but still solid enough underneath to jar her. When she tries to draw in a breath, she ends up with a mouthful of rain water instead. Her lungs feel like they're on fire -- she has to struggle to stay conscious.

Hands reach for her and she lashes out, kicking again. This time her foot connects with something soft enough to be flesh and she hears a pained groan as she rolls over onto her hands and knees and starts to crawl away.

Her hair is in her eyes, half-blinding her; the steady roar of rain and wind is deafening. She feels small and lost and afraid. Nausea rolls over her again and again but she doesn't dare stop, can't let herself be captured again...

" _Elizabeth_!"

John? For just a second she hesitates, wondering if she's imagining things, if it could really be him --

" _Elizabeth_!"

She turns towards the direction his voice seems to be coming from and almost slips in the mud. "John!" Her voice is weak, her shout pitiful to her own ears. Steadying herself, she sucks in a deep breath and tries again. "John, here! I'm over here!"

For a moment there's nothing but the rain and the wind and -- oh god, what if she was wrong? what if it _wasn't_ John? -- then lightning flashes and she catches a half-second glimpse of him running towards her.

"John!" She gets herself to her feet somehow and stumbles forward, two steps, three, and then he's there, he's right _there_ , and she falls against him with a sob, her hands scrambling for purchase on his shirt as he grips her upper arms, holding her up. "Oh god -- John! John, there was a man -- and I -- and he was --" Coherency fails her and she clings to him, her fingers curling into the open vee in his shirt and holding on tight, tugging him closer, desperate for his protection and warmth and strength --

Her fingertips slick over the wet skin of his chest and it's like touching a live wire --

" _Fuck_!" she hears again, and, oh god, that's his voice, his voice, _his voice_ \--

Her palm flattens on his chest instinctively and it's almost electrifying --

His hands tighten on her arms, fingers digging into her flesh --

Before she can stop herself she thinks, _harder_ \--

John shoves her backwards, her fingertips peeling away from his flesh and arms pinwheeling as she tries to find her balance. Before she can, something hard connects with the side of her face, sending her flying. Her vision stars and her teeth snap shut, the sudden taste of blood in her mouth unexpected.

She blacks out.

  


* * *

  


She wakes.

She sees John.

She meets Durta.

She can't help but think there is something terribly familiar about this all.

  
*  


John feeds her soup, carefully spooning it into her mouth like she's an invalid, or a child.

"I was off world," she says between mouthfuls, the memory coming to her slowly, distorted and fragmented. "There was a festival -- a celebration -- your team was there."

His hand trembles, just for an instant, a trickle of soup spilling onto her collarbone. It's hot -- a shock -- and she flinches.

"Sorry," he mutters. With the edge of her blanket, he wipes it up.

"S'okay," she says. "It --"

_\-- acren and the corn and monsters and michael and the lab and john and atlantis and the infirmary and the guards and the resequencer and teyla and the stargate and john and haedra and chocolate and john and josepp and chocolate and john and mikki and chocolate and john and sterve and chocolate and john and aimi and chocolate and john and pachlin and chocolate and john and zal and chocolate and john and durta --_

The deluge passes as quickly as it started. Tilting her head to the side, she looks up at him and smiles. "-- really doesn't hurt."

  
*  


"Durta says," says John, and she smiles.

Durta says a lot of things.

  
*  


She dreams of John, of his body pressed against hers and his fingers making patterns on her neck, her palms flat on his chest.

She wakes before she gets to the good part.

  
*  


John sits at a small table, eating some kind of fruit. It's round and melon-like, with juices that are staining his fingers a faint purple. He looks over when she shifts; stands and moves to sit on the edge of her bed.

"Durta thought we might like this," he says quietly, slipping a piece of the fruit between her lips. "He says it's a local delicacy."

She savours the tart taste and licks his knuckle. The fruit is unsatisfying, but his flinch more than compensates.

"It's good," she says, and stretches. Feels the ropes under her blankets tug against the skin on her wrists, her ankles. "You should let me go."

He clenches his jaw and says nothing.

She can't resist taunting him. "You _know_ you can't save me."

He jerks, eyes wide like she's hit him. "At least," he says darkly, "I'm fucking _trying_."

She watches him reach into his pocket and withdraw a little cloth bag. "For me?" she drawls. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

He shakes something small and squarish onto his palm. "It's chocolate," he says, holding it to her lips.

Wraith are about to start knocking on their door, and he's offering her sweets? "It's drugged."

He doesn't deny it. "You'll like it."

She arches an eyebrow. "Is that what Durta said?"

He meets her mocking gaze steadily. "Yes," he says, and she laughs.

Before she can stop him, he pushes the piece of chocolate between her lips and holds his palm over her mouth when she gags. Under the blankets, her hands fist as she forces herself to swallow and breathe. She nips at his fingers when he finally pulls his hand away.

"Ever think of maybe telling me the truth first?" she asks, and is surprised to hear her words slur. The chocolate works quickly, far better than any sleeping pill Beckett ever prescribed for her. "Maybe things would turn out differently then. You should... hmm... should try..."

There is the vaguest sensation of his fingers on her cheek, her shoulder; his voice sounds very far away. "What makes you think I haven't?"

  


* * *

  


She wakes slowly, her senses leaden, her thoughts lethargic. When she tries to shift, her arms and legs fail to move. She groans.

"Elizabeth," says a voice, and she opens her eyes with difficulty.

"Wha--" She blinks and lets her surroundings slowly take shape. Walls, a door, window -- she's lying on a bed, she realises, and someone is sitting near her. "John?"

"Yes." He lights what looks like a lantern and rests it carefully on the small table near his chair.

"What --" She looks around as the light gradually steadies but doesn't recognise anything. Even John seems somewhat unfamiliar, his features wearier than she remembers, older looking; his uniform has been replaced by a long sleeved cream tunic and dark brown pants. "Where --"

"It's okay," he says, reaching out and brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Everything's okay now." His finger traces the curve of her hairline almost tenderly. "Durta says we can stay as long as we like."

  
*  


John takes care of her, anticipates her every need, knows her and her body with a familiarity that is equal parts frightening and comforting.

He is her provider, her savior, her friend, her soldier, her _everything_.

She thinks she maybe hates him for that.

  
*  


Durta is pushing eighty and grandmotherly, with pure white hair that all but gleams when she steps into the patches of sunlight seeping into the room. Her walking stick is hand carved, beautifully made. Elizabeth is pretty sure the etchings on its side are from an Ancient proverb: _wisdom consists of the anticipation of consequences_.

As she watches Durta move about their room, straightening the covers on John's bed, polishing the small mirror that sits on top of the dresser in the corner, Elizabeth wonders where John is. So far as she can remember, this is the first time he's ever _not_ been there when she wakes from one of her naps and his absence is both worrying and exhilarating.

Durta looks over and catches her staring. Pausing only to give her a small smile, the old woman returns to her cleaning. She doesn't come near her bed.

Underneath her blankets, Elizabeth fidgets with the ropes around her wrists, scratching her nails against the knots. She knows they're for her own good -- like John says, without them there's no telling how much damage she would do to her spine if she accidentally started tossing and turning -- but the constant itch is terrible. Her skin feels chafed, raw.

Durta's humming, some soft, rhythmic tune that reminds Elizabeth of lullabies and hymns. Watching Durta, she listens and drifts.

When Durta walks over to collect the water jug sitting on the table beside her bed, Elizabeth moves. Sitting up, she pulls her hand free of rope and blankets, reaching over to touch the old woman's hand, to thank her for taking such good care of them.

Durta stiffens at the contact, eyes widening with something that looks like fear. She stumbles.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly, tugging on the woman's hand until she sits on the edge of the bed. "You look pale."

Durta says nothing, her mouth gaping and her breathing rapid. Carefully, Elizabeth releases Durta's wrist so that she can press her palm against her chest, searching for a heartbeat. It's there, but only just. She can feel the woman's pulse slowing dangerously.

"So old," she murmurs, pulling her other hand free and bringing it up to stroke the woman's hair. "So tired."

When she's confident that Durta's no longer in any distress, she lets her go and lies back down again. She feels sleepy suddenly, incredibly relaxed.

Unsurprisingly, her spine doesn't hurt at all.

Durta remains on the edge of her bed, quietly sitting, staring vacantly into space.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth smiles.

  
*  


When she opens her eyes again, John is sitting beside her, his fingers clenched around her arm. Her shoulder is sore; she thinks he was trying to shake her awake.

Durta is slumped on the floor at his feet.

"I'm sorry," she says, the words falling from her lips like habit, familiar but worn.

He pushes away from her with a curse.

  


* * *

  



	3. John

She wakes to the sound of something breaking.

She's in a room -- a bedroom -- and there are familiar shapes around her. A night table, another bed, a small dresser. She has no idea where she is.

John stands near the foot of her bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped, his back to her. When she tries to move, to sit up, she finds that can't; her limbs feel disconnected somehow, weak and lethargic. It takes all her energy just to turn her head. She tries not to panic.

"John?"

He doesn't react.

" _John_?!"

"It's okay, Elizabeth. Rest. Everything's fine now." His voice is thick, sad, but the words are almost monotonous and he doesn't move, doesn't turn to face her. "Everything's just fine."

  
*  


John cleans up the broken remains of what she thinks was a mug before bringing her a bowl of stew. It hadn't even occurred to her to mention that she was hungry.

"Why am I tied to the bed?"

He dunks a piece of bread into the stew before feeding it to her. "For protection."

Chewing slowly, she considers that for a moment. "Mine or yours?"

"Mine," John says, offering her a piece of what tastes like potato. "And everyone else's."

"Have I hurt people?"

"Yes."

"Have I hurt _you_?"

"Yes."

_\-- her hand on his chest, fingers splayed --_

Shaking the memory away, she opens her mouth for a piece of meat.

  
*  


John unties her limbs one at a time, guiding her through a series of exercises.

"Why are we here?" she asks as he extends her leg slowly. "Why aren't we on Atlantis?"

"While we still have some help on Atlantis -- McKay, Lorne, Keller, and Novak to name a few -- to the majority we're a security risk and a danger to others. Caldwell's been trying to pin us down ever since I got you off the city."

She winces slightly as the muscles in her leg stretch. "But why leave in the first place?"

"After the DNA resequencer was destroyed, it was suggested that you be placed in one of the cryo chambers." He switches legs. "You rejected the idea and me, thinking that you were still mostly _you_ at the time, fucked up genetics aside, gave you my word that it wouldn't happen, that I would find another way."

_\-- smooth metal in her hands, the jarring moment of contact so very satisfying --_

"So you brought me here?"

"And to other planets."

  
*  


John bathes her with a tenderness that's almost surprising.

"Why can't I remember what's happened to me?" she asks as he washes her back. "To us?"

"It's a side effect of the drug," John says. "Retrograde amnesia."

_Drug?_ Twisting, she looks over her shoulder at him. "What drug?"

"It's a newer version of the retrovirus Carson developed, designed with the female species in mind and mixed with a sedative and something that dampens the magnetic fields in the brain. Keller adapted it into an ingestible form after we left Atlantis and it became impractical for injections."

_\-- the chocolate is smooth, almost sweet --_

"And I take this drug?"

"Yes."

"Every day?"

"No. You build up an immunity to it too quickly for daily doses. The drug needs to leave your system almost entirely for the next dose to really take effect, so there's usually at least a few days between."

John smoothes her hair off her shoulders and she decides not to ask why she's taking such a drug in the first place.

  
*  


John brings her water, holds the cup to her lips so that she can drink.

"Who is Durta?" she asks. "Josepp? Aimi?"

He shrugs. "Everyone. No-one."

She frowns. "Are they real?"

"The first ones were." He wipes her mouth for her when she's finished drinking. "Familiarity draws out the amnesia -- keeps you both comforted and confused -- so I try to introduce new people to you with old names."

_\-- haedra says josepp says mikki says sterve says aimi says pachlin says zal says durta says --_

"And I believe you?"

His expression twists. "You try to."

  
*  


John sits at the end of her bed, mending one of the shapeless cream tunics they both wear now, and despite all the care he's given her since she woke this morning, the domesticity he's displayed, watching him stitch a torn seam is almost surreal.

"You don't usually answer my questions, do you?"

"Not like this, no."

Absently she curls her fingers up against her palm, nails scratching at the knot in the rope around her wrist. "Why not?"

Biting off another piece of thread, he turns the shirt over and begins repairing a rip in the neckline. "You remember too quickly," John says. "When I don't answer you, when I don't fill in the blanks, there's more time. There's a _routine_. I evade, you get paranoid, and after a few days, give or take, you find the one memory which will unlock them all." He shrugs. "It's not the best system I could have chosen, but it's the one that works best for us."

_\-- his expression falls as her taunts bite deep --_

The knot unravels.

  
*  


She works on the knot at her other wrist while John eats his own meal.

"Have you ever left me untied?" she asks.

He nods, swallows. "In the beginning. When I realised you couldn't control yourself -- didn't _want_ to control yourself -- that's when I introduced the restraints."

She doesn't particularly want to examine that answer very closely, so she chooses another question. "Have you ever left _me_?"

"Once."

Her fingers falter against the rope. "What happened?"

"It was the beginning of another planet, another cycle," he says, picking at his food. "As soon as we got through the stargate, I set you down near the DHD and walked away. You were still unconscious." A pause while he eats. "I found a village a few klicks to the west and got as drunk as I could."

"But you came back."

He shakes his head. "After two days I decided to go home. I was sure you'd run off by then -- the stargate was _right there_ \-- but when I got back to the 'gate, you were waiting for me." He shrugs. "I didn't bother trying again after that."

"I've never tried to leave you?"

"You claim you want to -- have begged me to let you go even -- but every time the opportunity has presented itself, you've chosen to stay." He doesn't sound particularly pleased about that fact.

_\-- wraith all around them, closing in, coming for her, and her voice, strong and authoritative: leave us --_

After a moment, she starts working on the knot again. John continues eating.

  
*  


Only one question left, and it's the one she already knows the answer to. She waits until John is sitting beside her on the bed, his hip warm against hers, even through the blankets, before asking it.

"Am I wraith now?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Yes."

_\-- and michael says: now let's see how **you** handle the dichotomy --_

She closes her eyes and lets it all click into place: her abduction from the festival on Acren, the experiments Michael conducted on her and her subsequent rescue from his lab. Destroying the DNA resequencer before she could be cured and then manipulating John into 'rescuing' her once again, this time from their own people. The chain of planets he's tried to hide her on, drawing out her amnesia each time with familiar names and routines while their friends fruitlessly search for another cure. Caring for her even as she calls out for Michael, for the wraith, to come after her...

John touches her shoulder and she opens her eyes. "Can I ask _you_ something?"

She nods.

"What made you remember today? When did you _know_?"

_\-- john stands near the foot of her bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped --_

"You," she chokes out. "I woke up and I saw --" She can't finish. Doesn't _want_ to.

All she wants now is to _forget_.

"John --" _I'm sorry_. "-- can I have a piece of chocolate now, please?"

His expressions cracks, falls. She thinks he might be about to cry. "Sure," he says quietly.

She watches him reach into his pocket and pull out a small package, shaking a square of chocolate out onto his palm.

Pulling her hands free of the blankets, she takes it from him and places it on her tongue.

He doesn't even seem surprised by her lack of restraints.

As she drifts away, John says, "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

She thinks he really means it.

  


* * *

  



	4. Cien

She wakes with a start, adrenaline coursing through her body and making her heart race. She has a desperate urge to _run_.

"Hey," says a voice soothingly, and she looks to the side to see John sitting next to her. One of his hands is on her shoulder, warm and comforting. "Hey, easy, it's okay."

"John?" She looks around but doesn't recognise anything. Even John seems unfamiliar, his features worn and tired, half-hidden by a beard flecked with grey. When she licks her lips, she tastes chocolate. "Where -- what --"

John smiles. "It's okay, don't worry. We're safe."

"Safe?" she repeats, confused. "Why --"

"There was..." For just a moment, John's smile dims. "... an accident. Of sorts. And you were injured. But everything's okay now, I promise."

A young man steps into the room, carrying what looks like lengths of rope. John glances over and gestures to him before turning back to her.

"This is Cien," he says with another smile. "Cien says we can stay as long as we need to."

  
*  


John takes care of her in a way that reminds her of when she was a small child, the whole of his attention seemingly devoted to her and her alone. It's comforting and reassuring and only a little bit smothering.

She would thank him if she could only remember why it's necessary.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/296975.html>


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